


scared to let your guard down

by cumulativeChaos



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Mutual Pining, fillin that fordo void in my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulativeChaos/pseuds/cumulativeChaos
Summary: Ford isn't an art student, but she likes to visit the art building. It's got a nice view of Lake Quad, a nice view of the art pieces, and a nice view of the pretty senior girl who's always working on the fifth floor.





	scared to let your guard down

**Author's Note:**

> title from girls like girls bc i literally FORGOT TO NAME THIS FIC and then PUBLISHED IT as "uhhhhhh that's Gay" which, while TRUE, is a Bad Title
> 
> so then i had to rush and find a new title name ASAP before ppl witnessed my mistake
> 
> (i hate naming things aaaaaaah)

Look, Ford likes to think of herself as a pretty capable girl. She successfully managed twenty-something hormonal, horny teenagers through three high school plays and three high school musicals, finished high school with a cumulative unweighted 3.8 GPA (and a 4.0 weighted), and racked up ten thousand dollars in scholarship money after she wrote _thirteen essays_  in the summer before her senior year. Also, her mom taught her how to throw a wicked right hook. She can handle herself, alright? 

But she's still, like, a college freshman—or, wait, a  _frog_ , that's what they call it here. Or that's what some people call it here? Some people say _frosh_? Anyway, Samwell's gorgeous, and everyone's been nice so far, but she's still gone from knowing her school like the back of her hand to wondering, in the back of her mind, if it's too late for her to transfer over to cyber school.

(She'd never admit it out loud, but Ford kind of misses her mom.)

She doesn't look into the cyber school thing, because doing so would admit weakness. Instead, she dives into stage managing again, and it helps. This is something she's familiar with. The head manager warns her about some of the melodramatic seniors, but it's a cakewalk compared to the drama queens and kings she had to put up with in high school.

Still, a part of her wants something different. But she can't _look_ for something different, because that would upset the carefully balanced machine that is Productive Ford, so instead she unwinds by exploring campus by day.

It's probably the prettiest place she's ever seen, with all the brick buildings and tree-lined green spaces, but soon it gets cold, and she finds herself wandering into buildings that have nothing to do with her major.

Like, for example, the art building. A month or so into school, and Ford finds herself visiting the building more and more. It's got big windows overlooking the pond and Lake Quad, but that's not what she's there to see.

The art in the building is _amazing_ —or, well, most of it is. Some of it ranges too far into abstract for her to understand, but it doesn't matter. Ford doesn't need to understand, here, she just needs to relax. Theater is art, obviously, but this art is calm, silent, and won't throw a hissy fit when the microphones blow out for the third time in one rehearsal.

But. That's not what Ford is there to see, either.

So, like, she came to Samwell for a whole bunch of reasons. Not too far from home, not too _close_ to home,  _absolutely stunning_ , small class sizes, a pretty wide range of major options for a small school—etc. etc. Ford can list hundreds of reasons why Samwell was one of her top choices, but there's one reason why it was her _final_ choice.

What's that phrase Ford keeps hearing? One in four, maybe more? Yeah. That's why she's here.

 _Here_ being both Samwell and the art building.

Like, okay, this girl? _Ridiculous_. Tiny, perpetually covered in paint or clay, always sitting in one of the spare rooms on the fifth floor. Every time Ford walks by, the girl is hard at work, painting or sculpting or _god knows what_ with her tongue between her teeth and her eyes hard with focus and—

Plus, she's got one of the gayest haircuts Ford's ever seen. A half-shaved undercut on a hetero? Ford hopes the fuck not.

Oh god, she hopes the fuck not.

* * *

It's not until the week before finals that Ford realizes that the art building would probably be a good place to study. If the hallway outside Mystery Girl's art room happens to have good natural lighting and a nice airflow, well, who's Ford to pass up such a golden opportunity?

It… actually _works_ , to her surprise. Ford's kind of new at this whole thing—she's not _completely_ inexperienced when it comes to dating, but stage managing took up 110% of her time in high school, and it's taking up 120% now—but she's pretty sure that studying quietly for her calc final isn't supposed to attract the girl in less than an hour. She wasn't even _trying_. That's a good thing, right?

(A part of her is angry at herself for not doing this sooner. The semester's almost  _over_ , goddamnit.)

"Hey," the girl says, voice cool and calm. "You come here a lot."

Ford has to clear her throat to make sure it doesn't crack. "I do."

"You're not in any of the art programs, though." The girl cocks her head to the side, lips almost smiling. "You just a fan of fine art?"

Looking up that this girl, the only thing Ford can think to say is _Yes, God, yes_.

Thankfully, the girl continues before Ford can make a fool out of herself. "Would you mind holding a pose for me?"

Ford has a sudden image of herself standing naked on a podium while the girl carefully captures every curve and fold of Ford's body onto paper.

"Uh, yeah," Ford says.

"Cool." The girl takes a step back, nods to the doorway. "It'll just take a couple minutes."

"That's fine." Ford realizes that there's a good chance she's going to waste this entire conversation, so before she can think twice she blurts, "My name's Ford."

The girl nods, lips almost smiling again. "Larissa."

 _Larissa_. Ford tries the name out in her mind, listens to how it sounds. It doesn't feel quite right, but then again, Ford doesn't know this girl. Larissa _could_ be fitting. Doesn't look like it, though.

* * *

"So, like, what's your deal?" Larissa asks Ford on her fifth night of modeling.

Ford didn't mean to keep doing this, but she kept coming back to the art building and Larissa kept asking for her help, and now it's kind of a routine. Work on school stuff for an hour, model for a few minutes, go back to studying. Ford likes to think of herself levelheaded, but that doesn't mean she isn't susceptible to the power of pretty girls.

"What?"

"You're not an art kid," Larissa says. "But you're here  _all the time_."

"It's a nice building," Ford replies. "Good study space."

"Am I taking away from your study time?"

"No!" Ford hesitates. "Well, yes, but it's not a bad thing. I'm managing everything really well! Helping you out is a good way to relax and make sure I don't get overwhelmed."

Larissa hums, mixing a warm brown color on her palate. "You're a frog, right?"

"Yup."

"Having a stressful first semester?" Larissa asks. This is the longest conversation Ford's ever actually  _had_ with the girl. She sends a mental thank-you to any gods that might exist.

"Honestly? It's less stressful than high school. I'm just tired of the same old stuff, you know?"

"You started college and things are the  _same_?" Larissa asks incredulously.

"Stage managing is pretty universal across all theaters," Ford says.

"You deal with  _theatre_ kids? God, that sounds like hell."

"It's not  _that_ bad. Usually." Ford sighed. "I just feel like if I keep up with it, I'm going to be burned out before I graduate."

"So you're looking to branch out into art?" Larissa joked.

"Oh,  _god_ no." Ford laughed. "I can't even manage a decent stick figure. I'm just here to get away from the drama kids."

"The people I deal with aren't much better," Larissa tells her. "Just as loud and emotional."

"Art kids are loud?"

"Ah." Larissa bites her lip like she's stifling a laugh. "That wasn't who I was referring to, but they're a lot of drama, too."

Ford doesn't know who else Larissa would be talking about. She's the perfect image of an art kid, with the hair and the paint smears and the generally quiet demeanor. Maybe she when she's not painting she hangs out with a different crowd?

"You should try to branch out," Larissa says. "Use your skills elsewhere."

"I don't usually branch out," Ford says in a surprisingly candor moment. "My life hangs in a delicate balance. Anything to disrupt that could throw my productivity out the window."

Larissa shrugs, not looking up from her painting. "Just a thought."

* * *

To her surprise, she's not all that emotional when she gets home. She was expecting to tear up a  _little_ bit, especially considering her mood during the first month of school, but her life's settled down enough that by winter break, she's only a little relieved to go home.

"That was nice of your roommate to give you a ride home," Ford's mom says after they hug in the foyer for a few minutes.

Ford decides not to mention her roommate's tendency to set alarms for five in the morning and then sleep right through them.

"So, how's Samwell been treating you?" her mom asks. "Meet anyone cute?"

"I've met  _several_ cute people, actually," Ford says. It's true. Larissa isn't the  _only_ attractive person on campus. She's just the only one Ford's talked to more than once. "Still no significant other for me."

Her mom purses her lips. Ford tenses; she knows where this is going to go. This conversation has followed her all through high school, and she's tired of hearing the same thing again and again.

"Look, honey," her mom says. "You always let stage managing take control of our life. You barely had any time to hang out with your friends! I don't want you to miss out on making connections in college."

"I'm not isolating myself," Ford says. "I know how to make friends."

The fact that she's not close enough with any of her college friends to text them over the break says something, though. Ford doesn't want to think about it too hard, but the truth is unavoidable: she can't make friends with the theatre kids, and they're the  _only people she ever sees_.

Larissa was right. She  _should_ try and branch out. But where? Half the year's over; everybody's already pretty solidified into their social groups by now. Ford's stuck as a friendly acquaintance for just about everybody she knows. She can't go inserting herself into other people's friend groups  _now_.

As winter break drags on, Ford finds herself wishing she'd asked Larissa for her number.

* * *

It falls into her lap, really. A blessing from the heavens.

"Hey," says some guy standing at the edge of Lake Quad. "Flyer."

"Neat!" Ford replies.

She doesn't get a chance to look at the paper until dinner, when she's sitting down in the dining hall with her roommate and a bowl full of clam chowder.

"What's that?" her roommate asks. Ford's roommate is a girl with neon hair and a scary amount of piercings, but aside from the five a.m. alarm thing she's nice.

"Dunno," Ford says, scanning the paper. Whoever designed it was going more for content rather than aesthetics. The text is plain, a large font for the title and a slightly smaller font beneath it.

Ford's roommate reads the paper over Ford's shoulder. "The hockey team needs a new manager? God, that sounds like  _torture_. I hate the hockey team."

"They're just loud," Ford says, eyes reading the flyer with an increased amount of enthusiasm.

"You've lived with jocks your whole life," her roommate says. "You're  _used_ to it. But none of the other teams here are as annoying."

"I'm gonna apply," Ford announces. Her roommate chokes on her cereal, but but the sentence feels like a long exhale after hours of holding in a breath. She's nervous about this, sure, but she knows this is the right thing to do. Branch out. Her brothers' teammates were radically different from the theater kids she's interacted with, but it's the same basic idea. Management. She can do this.

* * *

She can't do this.

She can't sit in front of these people and put on a friendly smile when one of  _these people_ happens to be _her_. Larissa. The artist who disappeared once second semester started. Her hair's different, now. Longer. Not shaved on one side.

Ford saw Larissa's eyes widen when she sat down. She knows she recognizes her. So, Ford takes a deep breath, summons every ounce of her courage, and says, "Guess who finally decided to take your advice?"

Larissa's mouth twitches—almost smiling.

That almost smile is enough to calm Ford's nerves. From there, the interview is easy—she knows management, she  _mostly_ knows jocks, and she knows how to yell. Ford tries to ignore the way her heart stutters when Larissa says, " _Please demonstrate_." Or the way her heart soars when Larissa announces, "You're hired."

Larissa's graduating, Ford doesn't have a chance, but that's okay. A cute girl just gave Ford a job and a chance to start over in a new group of people. It's the best day of Ford's life.

She's treated to pie and a quick tour around the house—the  _Haus_. The tiny blonde kid gives her more food than she can swallow and more words than she can respond to, and she takes it all with a grin. She's  _excited_. Usually, new territory fills her with apprehension, but there's none of that now. She knows there's gonna be an adjustment period, but she's ready.

The most important thing that Ford learns is that here, Larissa goes by Lardo. For a second, Ford thinks the name is even less fitting than Larissa—seriously, the girl is  _tiny_ —but the more the boys toss the name around, the more it works. Lardo isn't out of place in the art school, but she seems to fit in better here. Here, she's just as much a part of the loud, obnoxious, mildly unhygienic team as any of the athletes.

Lardo disappears up to her room pretty quick. Ford tries not to be upset about that. She talks to the other teammates, gets to know the captains a little bit, lets herself imagine being a part of this team. It's not a bad image.

(She also gets called "Foxtrot" a few times. Ford doesn't think about it too hard.)

Ford doesn't realize how long she's been at The Haus until Ransom, one of the captains, says, "Yo, are you in Norris?"

"Yeah. Oh,  _shi_ _t_ , that's kinda far away." It's getting kind of dark out, and Ford feels a sliver of dread in her gut. As far as she knows, Samwell has a a pretty safe campus, but her route home will take her right by some of the bars...

"I'll walk you, if you want," Ransom says.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," Ransom insists. "It took Lardo forever to find a manager, we can't lose you after all that hard work."

Ford smiles. "Alright, then."

* * *

 The walk back to her dorm is silent, for a while. Ford gets a few catcalls from some drunken idiots at the bars, but Ransom just glares at them until they walk away.

It's not until they're almost at the bridge when Ransom says something.

"Lardo says she knows you," Ransom says.

Ford's heart skips a beat. "I helped her with her art a few times."

Ransom nods, gazing into the distance as if lost in thought. "I just wanna make sure, you know," he says after a while. "That you're not leading her on."

Ford chokes on her own spit.

What.

" _What?_ " she squeaks. She's only just met Ransom today, but a part of her is firmly insisting that this is a joke.

"She puts on a good show, but Lardo's pretty self-conscious," Ransom says. "She was pretty bummed when you never asked her for her number."

"Oh my god," Ford whispers.

"So, like, if you  _are_ just fucking with her, know that the entire Samwell men's hockey team is gonna be out for your ass. Trust me, you don't want us on your bad side."

"I'm not—" Ford's voice cracks. "I'm not fucking with her."

Ransom glances at her from the corner of his eye, brows turned upwards in questions.

"It's. It's mutual." Ford feels her face heating up. She hopes it's dark enough that Ransom can't tell.

"Haha, s'wasome."

 "Why did she stop coming to the art building this semester?" Ford blurts. "I used to see her there all the time. I was going to... I dunno, ask her to hang out or something."

"She's graduating? And she was trying to find a new manager? It's been a stressful semester." Ransom grins. "But dude, the fact that _you're_ the perfect manager means it's totally fate. This is your second chance."

The brick building that is the Norris dorms looms over the two of them, the harsh fluorescent lighting creating a warm glow around them. Ford stops at the door, unsure of what to say. Her mind is spinning—this has been one hell of a day—but "second chance" resonates with her. This is a second chance with Lardo, a second chance at her social life. She's barely met the team, but in a few short hours she already feels more at home with them than with any of the theatre kids she's interacted with her whole life.

Instead of voicing all that, Ford settles on a, "Thanks for walking me home."

"Dude, don't even worry about it," Ransom replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I gotta watch out for my Taddies."

Ford's brow furrows, but she doesn't question it.

"But hey," Ransom says, taking a step back and smiling warmly. "Welcome to the team. You're gonna do great."

* * *

By nature of learning to manage a hockey team, Ford spends more time with Lardo.

It's kind of strange, having to mesh _Larissa_  with  _Lardo. Larissa_ is a quiet art student. _Lardo_ is a beer pong  _god_ , an epic belcher, and heavy enforcer of the team's many fines. Lardo is a  _bro_ , and at the same time she holds a level of authority over the team in a way Ford can't seem to master.

"How do you get them to just...  _listen_ to you without yelling?" Ford asks her.

Lardo shrugs. "Part of it's that I know the boys, part of it's just who I am. I generally don't yell.  _You_ , however, have mastered the art of yelling. Don't be to hard on yourself if you have to flex that skill every now and again."

Despite the fact that, compared to Lardo, Ford feels like she's failing spectacularly, the team is wholly supportive. It's the endless kindness they offer her that keeps Productive Ford from falling apart. Her carefully balanced machine is a wreck, and yet... it's nice. Her life now exists in this strange state of almost-chaos that would usually have her on the verge of panic, but instead she's reveling in it. The change of pace is refreshing, and while the hockey team isn't without their drama, they're  _so_ much better than the actual drama kids.

It takes a week of manager-related meetings full of vague complimentary comments before Ford works up the courage to actually Do Something about the whole Lardo thing.

She's studying in the art building again (even if Lardo hasn't been there all semester, it's still a good place to get work done) when she hears the elevator ding just around the corner. Usually nobody comes up to the fifth floor, so Ford uses that as an excuse to peek around the corner.

Her heart rate spikes when she sees Lardo.

The girl's got her eyes trained on her phone, so she doesn't notice Ford staring as she enters the studio immediately to her right. Ford takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and then proceeds to sit there for another ten minutes pretending to do homework. This is her chance to put an end to all the dancing around each other they've been doing. Ford's even gotten confirmation from Ransom that the interest is mutual, so she should  _do something_ , right? And yet a tiny part of her brain is anxiously muttering that Lardo's changed her mind, she doesn't care about Ford, she isn't interested in a dumb freshman who hasn't had close friends in years—

No. Ford stands up abruptly, summoning every bit of courage that she has. She can do this. She's not the timid girl from last semester. She's not going to let this incredible chance slip by.

Willing her mind to stay as blank as possible, Ford walks into the studio.

"Hey!" she says cheerily. Lardo's the only one in the room (thank  _God_ ), and her head snaps up in surprise when Ford enters. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Uh, yeah." Lardo's eyes are wide. She's caught off guard, Ford realizes.

"So..." Fuck, Ford doesn't know where to go with this. "What... are... you working on?"

"Uh." Lardo glances down at her easel, and suddenly all emotion is drained from her face. "Art."

"Well, obviously!" Ford says. Panic rises in her throat. That is  _not_ the reaction she wanted. "Are you painting something?"

"A portrait," Lardo answers curtly.

"Neat!" What should she say. What should she say. What should she say what should she say what should she— "Hey, y'know, I never got to see the sketches you did of me last semester."

Lardo's eyes widen a fraction of an inch. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I mean—if you don't mind, could I—could I see them?"

"Uh." Lardo glances at the easel in front of her. "I only have one with me."

"That's fine," Ford says. "I mean, if you think it's bad and you don't want to show it to me, that's fine, but I'm sure it's great. Whatever you want. It's your art."

Lardo hesitates, staring at the easel intently. From where she's standing, Ford can't see what's on it, but Lardo's staring like it holds the key to the universe.

"Sure," Lardo says, gesturing to the easel. "Take a look."

For a moment, Ford wonders why Lardo would bring one of her sketches of Ford here to work on, but then she sees the painting.

"Oh, wow," Ford breathes.

It's Ford's  _face_.

It's unfinished, obviously, but Ford is still captivated. In the painting, her head is turned partly, her eyes gazing out of the page and directly at Lardo and Real Life Ford. Parts of her face that Ford used to be self-conscious about in high school (her round cheeks, her bushy eyebrows) seem pretty, more than pretty, on the paper. Her lips are parted slightly, mouth unsmiling but not frowning. Ford can't categorize the expression, and she doesn't really know much about art, but she can tell that Lardo's put a lot of effort into this painting.

"This is  _amazing_!" Ford gasps.

Lardo smiles. She's not looking at the painting. "Thanks."

"Did you do this without any reference?" Ford asks.

"Mostly. I used the other sketches as a guide."

"Wow," Ford breathes. "You're so good at painting."

Lardo snorts. "Chyeah, some good it does me. I graduate in  _months_ and I have  _no idea_  what I'm gonna do in the real world."

Ford looks at her, then at the painting, and then back at her. "Lardo," she says, voice the most serious tone she's ever managed. "You're going to be amazing."

There's a silence. With a start, Ford realizes that their faces are  _really_ close. She can feel Lardo's breath on her cheek. She could do it, right now—just tilt her head and lean in, it would only take a second—but doubt holds her back. What if she's reading this wrong? What if Lardo freaks out? What if—

But no. So far, it's been Lardo who's put themselves out on the line. She asked Ford to model for her. She willingly showed Ford her work, something that's obviously very important to her. Ransom had said, "She puts on a good show, but Lardo's pretty self-conscious," which means that every piece of herself that Lardo's left vulnerable must've been backed by  _tons_ of courage. And here Ford is, having the audacity to be  _annoyed_ that she and Lardo are still dancing around each other. It's her turn to be brave, now.

Her first thought, when she presses her lips to Lardo's, is  _warm_.

The second is  _soft_.

The third is the mental equivalent of an incoherent keysmash, because Lardo's lips part ever so gently, and her breath comes out as a sigh.

They both pull away after only a moment, eyes reluctantly drifting open again. They're still close, so close, and Ford's heart is racing. The AC hums quietly in the background, and their quiet breaths warm the air between them.

Lardo grabs Ford by the back of her head and pulls her in.

Ford's never been kissed like this. She's never been so completely absorbed by another person, so unaware of anything except another person's body. Lardo's mouth coaxes something out of her, a quiet gasp, a choked moan. There's a pair of hands cupping her cheek, and Ford's aware of a narrow set of hips in  _her_ hands, but even that feels miles away. Everything is warm, soft, yet it still feels  _intense_. She's dizzy in a matter of seconds, so she clings to Lardo's frame as an anchor to hold herself down.

Lardo knows what she's doing. She's obviously done this before, so Ford decides that must be the reason why she pulls away first. Ford, on the other hand, would've kept kissing until she passed out.

"It's about damn time," Lardo says. "I was losing hope."

"It takes me a while to commit to new things," Ford says. She takes the hands cupping her face and thread their fingers together. "But trust me, I've wanted to do that for months."

"God, me too." Lardo pulls her forward, resting her forehead against Ford's. "My plan was to wow you with my angsty artist side."

"I can't believe I was convinced you were this aloof, mysterious hipster," Ford chuckles. "And then two days ago I saw you fart on Ransom."

Lardo's face pales. "You  _saw_ that?"

"Chyeah!" Ford giggles, giving Lardo's hands a squeeze. "I get it, though. You can't be friends with a bunch of gross jocks without  _being_ a gross jock, to some extent."

Lardo stares at her like she's a puzzle she can't figure out. "Y'know, most people who know me as artsy first are  _disgusted_ by my hockey bro side. Most people usually prefer one or the other."

Ford gives Lardo's hands another squeeze. "Well, I like both sides of you. All sides of you. The angsty artist, the obnoxious frat boy, the organized team manager—all of it."

Lardo's grin turns wobbly. "'Swawesome."

* * *

When Lardo graduates, there are more tears than Ford ever experienced in the drama department. There are more hugs than she can count. After a while, she slips away from the crush of people affiliated to Samwell's men's hockey team (which is a very large, very loud, very emotional group). The campus is full of well-dressed people crowded around graduated students in their black gowns. It's a little unnerving, considering how Ford's only just finished her freshman year. Her graduation feels both alarmingly close and infinitely far away.

"Hey!" a familiar voice calls. Ford smiles as she turns around.

"Hey," she says. Lardo has her gown off already and is strolling across the quad in one of Ford's favorite black dresses.

"Were you really going to wander off without saying goodbye?" Lardo asks.

"I was just taking a break from all the crying," Ford says. She notices a few smears of mascara on Lardo's cheeks. She takes Lardo's face in her hands and gently brushes them with her thumb. "You absolute mess."

"Shut  _up_ ," Lardo says, pulling Ford against her. "I'm gonna miss everyone. I'm gonna miss  _you_."

"We're keeping in touch," Ford says. "Skyping every day. And you're coming over at least once this summer."

"It's not the  _same_." Lardo sighs and rests her head in the crook of Ford's neck. "I'm gonna miss you."

For the first time all year, Ford feels her eyes prickle with tears. "I'm gonna miss you, too."

Lardo sighs and pulls away, pressing a quick peck to Ford's cheek. "Let's go say bye to your boys one last time."

"Our boys," Ford corrects.

"Nope, not anymore," Lardo says. "I'm out. This is your team, now. They've got your back."

Ford looks across the quad to the mass of large, athletic men still embracing tearfully. Some of them she doesn't know as well as others, but this is her team. These are her friends. She  _has_ friends, real friends, ones who care about her and talk to her and text her over break. And she has Lardo, probably the best thing to ever happen to her.

Ford takes hold of Lardo's hand and smiles. "Yeah," she says, "they do."

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh lmk if i fucked up grammar or switched tenses or typed "fordo" instead of "ford"
> 
> pls everyone write more fordo my crops are withering my family is dying


End file.
